Tangled Threads Publishing

Category: Web Serial

  • 1.11 – Capture

    1.11 – Capture

    For three days the sky was clear and the wind was fair, and Einarr kept one hand on the tiller while he and his stolen bride spoke of many things, laying plans for how they would live once they were officially wed – and occasionally trading kisses. For all her various skills Runa knew nothing of navigation, and so when night fell they would drop anchor in spite of the pursuers they expected but could not see and sleep. Einarr was glad that Runa did not push herself at him, for after so many hours in such close proximity he would have been hard pressed to refuse. For all that they remained chaste, however, it was no small feat of endurance.

    He caught her watching him several times, and she caught him at least once. She had been singing for the joy of it, and the music bolstered his tired mind. His eye fell upon the flaxen braid hanging below her hips on the seat and took in the perfection of her form. She turned to look over her shoulder at him, and a tightness spread across his stomach. He felt his face heat in a blush as he looked away, but not quickly enough to miss the hunger in her own eyes. No. Bad enough to steal her away; you will not have her until you are properly wed.

    On the fourth day a storm blew up. The sky turned dark, and Einarr furled the sail and took up oars. He wasn’t sure how much he could do, but he had to at least try to keep them on course. Runa sang of warmth and light and the strength of a man’s arms, and the song magic fortified him. Einarr battled the waves to keep them on course, and while she sang he did not feel the chill of the rain or the strain of his arms. But not even song magic could make his vision pierce the veil of rain.

    He did not know how long he had fought the storm when the sound of metal striking wood raised his hackles. He turned to look over his shoulder without letting go of the oars. Behind them, their approach masked by the sheeting rain and the rumbling thunder, the Skudbrun of Kjell Hall loomed. The sound that had alerted him were the two hooks now embedded in the side of their skiff that secured a pair of boarding lines. Einarr thrust the oars forward and Runa took charge of them.

    Einarr drew Sinmora and stood between her father’s ship and Runa, expecting even in that moment it would be hopeless. He would fight, of course, but with these odds…

    The first man down the rope was one Einarr recognized from long ago. Seven years ago, he had been the one to defeat the team of Einarr and Runa in their goat-game, and all winter long they’d had a friendly rivalry going on. “Barri.”

    “Einarr.”

    Einarr glanced back at Runa: the princess’ eyes kept darting between the two men, nearly as worried for Barri’s fate as for Einarr’s. “I don’t suppose there’s any way you’d let us settle this with arm-wrestling – for the Princess’ sake?”

    “You know I can’t do that.”

    “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

    “Should’ve thought of that before you took off with her.” Barri took a testing swing toward Einarr with his own blade, which was easily parried.

    “I did. But that includes her.” Now Einarr slashed at Barri with the blunt edge of his blade. This, too, was parried.

    Barri shrugged, and then the fight began in earnest.

    Under ordinary circumstances, Einarr thought he’d be more than a match for Barri at swordplay. These were not ordinary circumstances, however, and between his inability to give ground without putting Runa in harm’s way and the awkward swing he used to strike with Sinmora’s blunt edge Barri actually had the edge. Time and again metal struck metal, Einarr’s saving grace the fact that he could prevent his opponent’s maneuvering just as much as his own movements were limited.

    Finally, Barri tried to skewer Einarr on the tip of his sword and forgot his guard. It was only a moment, but that was enough. Einarr raised Sinmora to his opposite shoulder and swung.

    The flat of the blade struck the other man across the face and he stumbled to the deck, stunned. A small scream escaped Runa’s lips.

    “He’ll be fine,” Einarr said. “Whether or not we will is another question.”

    “Be careful,” was all she said. Another Brunning was right on Barri’s heels, pressing forward to get ahead of where his crewmate was beginning to stir, and then he was fighting again. Blades clashed, and a second Brunning fell to the deck, stunned. A third advanced, axe raised, even as Barri took his feet once more.

    Over the clang of sword against axe, the solid thunk of a hook embedding itself in the wood caught Einarr’s attention. He glanced up, hardly daring to take his attention away from one of Runa’s countrymen, to see another boarding line attached to the side of their little skiff.

    “Einarr, enough.” Tears filled her voice and nearly distracted him from a blow that would have taken his sword arm off at the elbow. “I can’t bear to see anyone get hurt here.”

    “Tell that to the Brunnings,” he grunted, bringing Sinmora’s haft down on the back of his opponent’s neck.

    A swarthy bear of a man was sliding down the third boarding line, an axe at his belt and an unfamiliar grim expression riding on his otherwise familiar features. Einarr stood ready to duel the newcomer, too, even after the cinnamon-colored braids and beard resolved themselves into the uncharacteristically grim face of Erik, one of his Father’s best men.

    1.10 – Runaway Bride 1.12 – Negotiations
    Table of Contents
  • 1.10 – Runaway Bride

    1.10 – Runaway Bride

    Spring thaw was not far off, and Stigander was impatient to be off hunting the Grendel. If they were going to act, it would need to be quickly, before the Vidofnir sailed and the two young lovers lost their chance forever. At court the night after they had agreed, Runa passed Einarr a message: her lady in waiting had gone to purchase them a fishing boat from the village across the island.

    They hid the skiff in a cove up the coast from the Vidofnir’s mooring, and for the remainder of the Ice found ways – separately, of course – to squirrel supplies away on their skiff. Food, water, sea charts, a sextant… Einarr hoped it would be enough, because there would be no going back.

    The night of the Equinox was to be a full moon, and it was bad fortune to sail before then. The timing troubled Einarr, but the superstition said nothing of the night itself. Surely that would be near enough? That was the night Einarr judged they would have the best chance of escaping, and so they decided to risk it. Forgive me, Father. I could not refuse her.

    As the last light of sunset faded on the last night of winter, Einarr wandered past the table and hid some scraps of meat inside a small sack he carried beneath his cloak. He took no torch, and if anyone noticed when he slipped out they probably assumed he was headed for the outhouse. He gently lifted Sinmora from its hiding place beneath the eaves, pressing the sheath against his breast as he crossed the meadow. The light of the moon silvered the new spring grass around him, but he spared little attention for the beauties of the night.

    Finally the shadow of the spruce wood rose up before him, and as he stepped into the deeper shade of a tree he buckled the sword about his waist. Its weight was a comfort, but its absence in the hall would give them away. He only hoped it was noted late, once they were already on the water.

    Now he saw Runa nearly running across the open field, her face cast into shadow, her hair shining silver in the light. His breath caught in his throat, and all doubts as to their course fled his mind. Her cloak billowed behind her, and he saw a bag slung over one shoulder.

    She, too, stepped into the shadow of the forest, and Einarr released a breath he had not known he held as she threw her arms about his neck. “Ready?” She whispered.

    He nodded.

    “Follow me.”

    Out of sight of the Hall, in the shadow of the wood, they fairly flew down the well-remembered path to the cove Runa’s maid had favored. Only the need to step quietly, even here, slowed them, for the moon was bright and full. Einarr kept one hand on the hilt of his sword, his ears alert for trouble, even as he gripped Runa’s hand in his other. Two main concerns troubled his mind as they fled down the path: wolves, and the hounds of the Hall.

    The path they followed to their hidden cove was long and meandering, and they had gone perhaps half the distance when one of those concerns came to the forefront.

    A dog bayed.

    “Hurry!” Runa’s voice was edged with worry but not at all winded.

    “You go on ahead. I’ll slow them down and meet you there.”

    “Be careful.”

    Einarr grunted acknowledgment and stepped off the path to crouch in a bush. The darkness was still his best ally, but with dogs the men from the hall were sure to catch up. He scanned his surroundings. In the mottled light under the trees his eyes tried to play tricks, but he still spotted a deadfall just up the path.

    He hurried forward, his boots light on the loamy ground, and put a shoulder to the log. Einarr was pleasantly surprised to find it light, hollowed out and dried by time. He moved it down a side path and set one end on a stone, leaving a gap between wood and ground. Into this gap he shoved pieces of the meat he stole earlier, as well as one of his leather gloves. To screen the bait, he covered it with fallen branches. That should keep them busy for a little while, anyway.

    His trap set, Einarr hurried back to the cove trail as best he could, sacrificing a little speed in the name of moving quietly. It would be for nothing if he could not make it back to Runa, after all.

    Some ways further down the familiar path, he smirked when he heard the sound of someone shouting at the dogs and picked up the pace. It probably wouldn’t take them long to get the dogs back on the real trail.

    Indeed, not many minutes later the shouting stopped, followed after far too short a time by the sound of baying hounds.

    Light reflected off of water up ahead and he poured on the speed, sprinting for the sea like he would charge for a boarding line. Einarr scrambled down the scree-covered path to the water. His distraction had slowed the hunters just barely long enough; he could hear his father’s voice bellowing behind, loudly enough that he did not worry about clattering rocks giving away his position. Runa stood in the bow of the boat with an oar resting on the wet sand below. Her hair glowed in the moonlight, a halo suggesting her true origins.

    Three bounds took him across the tiny beach, and Einarr vaulted into the boat next to his stolen bride. Her smile was sweet as he took the oar from her hands and pushed off the shore, even as the dogs began racing down the rocky path with Stigander close on their heels.

    The dogs stopped at the water’s edge, barking furiously. Runa’s boat had caught the tide, and they were deeper than the hounds wished to swim. Stigander stopped, also, and held his torch aloft.

    “I’m sorry, father,” Einarr called across the gulf. Runa’s arms curled around him from behind, offering what support she could.

    “Do you think that you will be safe because you are my only son?” Stigander’s voice cracked with anger and betrayal and hurt – and sorrow. A pang of guilt stabbed through Einarr’s resolve, but it was only a pang.

    “No, Father. And yet, she has persuaded me. Happy hunting when you seek the Grendel.” Einarr took his seat and began rowing, turning his back on his father and the Vidofnir.

    1.9 – Spring Thaw 1.11 – Capture
    Table of Contents
  • 1.9 – Spring Thaw

    1.9 – Spring Thaw

    For three more long winter months, Einarr attempted to court the Princess Runa, and for three more long winter months Stigander attempted to nudge the Jarl toward acceptance. Fortune was not in their favor, however, and the Jarl would not budge. The sons of Raen understood the reason all too well, but that made it no easier for Einarr to bear. Not when Trabbi the fisherman – Trabbi, who had not once sailed out of Hroaldr’s territory; Trabbi who had no ambition outside his fleet of fishermen; Trabbi, who was nearly as old as Stigander, whose chief virtues were loyalty to his Jarl and an established homestead, whose affection for the girl more resembled a fond uncle’s than a lover’s – was the favored suitor.

    Einarr seethed each and every time that Trabbi stepped in before him to speak with Runa, and seethed more to remind himself of the cause. The Jarl did what he believed best for his daughter and his own holdings, and attaching either of them to the cursed line of Raen was not likely to be either. He stopped short of cursing his grandfather. Tempting as it was, he had no hand in the Weaving that drew calamity on his descendant’s line.

    For her part, Runa accepted his attentions with a smile that was merely polite, and gave Trabbi as little encouragement as she could manage. Einarr almost pitied the man, in truth, because he suspected in the end none of the three parties involved had much say in the matter.

    Eventually, though, the soothsayers and the wind proclaimed that spring was on its way. Soon the Vidofnings would be able to refit and prepare for the first expedition of the new year. On the first clear day of the thaw, Einarr volunteered to give their ship its initial inspection. He wanted – needed – to get away from the Hall and the stifling awkwardness that had settled in the air as the months passed. The cold stares Einarr got from the Jarl only made things worse, of course: that their presence this winter was suffered for the sake of his friendship with Stigander was plain. The more Einarr had pushed himself forward, tried to show himself a good match despite his handicaps, the less welcome he felt.

    Snowdrops were beginning to show their heads, he noticed as he skied over the still-snowy field surrounding the hall. The idea flitted through his head to collect some on his way back, but before he could settle on the idea a voice reached his ears.

    “Wait.” The sweet note that carried halfway across the field to him was Runa’s voice. “Wait, please.”

    Einarr stopped and twisted to look behind him. The fur of her cloak was dyed crimson, and drew his eye to the long blond braid that caressed her figure. He sighed, obliging, as she closed the distance. She would make an excellent wife. But not for me, at this rate.

    “Thank you,” she said. Her face was already red from the cold.

    “You shouldn’t come out this way alone. There are wolves about, even in your father’s holdings.” He affected formality; since the Jarl did not intend her for him, it would be best to put some distance between them.

    “I’m not alone, now am I, so long as you allow me to walk with you.”

    “Such a thing would hardly be proper, under the circumstances.”

    “Oh, come now. I only wish to talk with you, and you are far too much the gentleman to try anything.”

    “Am I?”

    “Aren’t you?” She raised an eyebrow at him.

    He laughed in spite of himself, lowering his head to hide the smile he could not quash. “As you wish, my lady.”

    “Excellent.” Runa closed the distance between them and threaded a hand about his arm, under the cloak to leave his sword-hand free.

    “My lady. . .”

    “There is no impropriety in a young man escorting a woman this way, especially at her request.” She played at haughtiness, teasing him for his formal mask.

    He looked over at her, about to protest, but sighed instead. The look of her sea-blue eyes brooked no opposition and the feel of her bosom pressed against his arm sapped his will. “Well then, since you insist, let us continue.”

    It was not until they were starting down the switchbacks leading to the beach that she spoke again. “You know that my father has formally proposed my betrothal to Trabbi?”

    “I wish I was surprised.”

    “They haven’t been exactly subtle, have they.” She sighed. “Why must I marry a graybeard?” She wailed, and the change in tone was enough to make Einarr jump, even with her arm wrapped around his own.

    “So Father has failed, then. …That may be partially my fault. If I had backed off after that Hall dance…”

    “I would still be engaged, but I would be even more trapped.” Runa looked at him, her eyes as earnest as he had ever seen them. “You do love me, don’t you?”

    Einarr looked at her sidelong, trying to ignore the unseasonably low cut of her dress, trying equally to find the strength to lie. “Yes,” he breathed, his heart winning over his head.

    “Then if I tell you I have a plan…?”

    “That may depend on the plan.”

    She nodded once and fell silent again. Einarr offered her a hand for balance going down the steep path crossing from the forest to the beach. He could see the ship, now, and from here it looked as though nothing untoward had happened, but a thorough inspection was what he had come out to do.

    “You know when I decided I would marry you?”

    “When?”

    “When you teamed up with me to bring in the goats all those years ago.” She couldn’t quite stifle a giggle, and it lightened Einarr’s mood enough that he smiled.

    “Has your father told you why he is against it?”

    “Yes. I’m afraid I can’t quite bring myself to worry about it, though, and the Weaving must be nearly unraveled by now.”

    He pursed his lips. He wasn’t at all sure of that, not after the encounter with the Grendel last fall.

    “Will you take me away?”

    “To what? A life on the run, with neither hearth nor hall nor port of call?” He recoiled at the idea, ashamed that some small part of him was still tempted.

    “Am I not worth fighting for?”

    “What do you think I’ve been doing?”

    “Playing a courtly game you can’t win. My father won’t change his mind for that. I see three choices, only one of which is likely to be acceptable to both of us.”

    “Oh? And what would those be?” Einarr started up the ladder leading to the Vidofnir‘s deck, only half listening as he tried to find the argument that would convince him not to go along with it.

    “First: we accept my father’s judgement and I marry Trabbi.”

    Einarr twitched. It was the safest option, but the thought of losing her to a man his father’s age was physically painful.

    “Not acceptable to me, and I don’t think to you either. Two: you take me like a common serving girl. We aim to get caught, preferably after I’m with child. Surely then Father will yield.”

    He turned his head to stare down at her, wide-eyed, hardly able to believe what she was suggesting.

    She cut him off before he could object. “Somehow, I think you too much Stigander’s son to go along with that.”

    “I am appalled you even thought it worth mentioning.” That traitorous corner of his mind noted that she mentioned no personal objection to the plan. He was doubly betrayed when the thought kindled desire. He stamped it down.

    “Indeed. Three: we get a boat and sail away. On the first island we come to, we wed.”

    He sighed and did not answer immediately. The idea was tempting, but it would be a betrayal of everything his Father had taught him. He was standing on the deck by the time he trusted himself to answer, and at that point she was halfway up the ladder. He needed to look her in the eye for this.

    No sooner had her second slipper met the deck boards than he took her by the shoulder and spun her to face him, affecting more anger than he felt. “What sort of man do you take me for? The Sons of Raen do not steal wives. You really think I could let some pretty face – even one like yours – convince me to betray my own father? To end their friendship like that?”

    “Not a face, perhaps, but what about a voice?”

    His mouth hardened. “You wouldn’t.”

    “I could.” Despite the difference in their heights, she managed to peer down her nose at him. Then her face fell. “But you’re right. I wouldn’t, even though I do not love him. You would abandon me?”

    He stared at her for a long moment, weighing how serious she appeared and how much he wanted her against the combined wrath of Hroaldr and Stigander. He would be surprised if anyone at Kjell Hall did not realize how he felt. It would make him a renegade, the very scion of cursed Raenshold cast out as a traitor to their Thane, but as he gazed on her the last of his resolve melted away. He knew his answer to her question. “No…. No, I cannot abandon you. You put me in a difficult position, my lady.”

    “Just as my father has placed me in one.”

    He clasped both her tiny hands in his own, nodding and hoping she understood his agreement. “Runa.” The name tasted sweet on his tongue, and at that moment it was the only word he could say. A long moment passed before he remembered his task. “I have work that must be done before I can return to the hall. Will you aid me in my task?”

    “I will, my lord.” A playful smile curled the corners of her mouth.

    1.8 – Dance Fight! 1.10 – Runaway Bride
    Table of Contents
  • 1.8 – Dance Fight!

    1.8 – Dance Fight!

    Einarr knew those boots very well, in fact. Had watched, in any spare moment she could find, as Astrid stitched them herself from the skins of rabbits she had asked him to catch. Stitched them herself, when it would have been the easiest thing in the world to pass it off to one of the thralls. And now Stigander swaggered onto the dance floor wearing them, courting a wife for his son.

    He kicked himself through a backflip to stand upright. Stigander smirked and began to spin around on his heels, his hands held out as if to ask ‘what can I say?’

    Einarr matched and opposed the spin, such that they crossed paths twice each rotation. Every few twirls he dropped to a crouch, and now it was Father’s turn to match him.

    There was a limit to the acrobatics they could pull off with both of them in the circle, however. The music continued, shifting into the Warrior’s Dance. Stigander motioned to someone in the hall, who tossed him a staff. Einarr looked over at Erik and gestured for the same. He caught it with a flourish before knocking its end against the floor. The knock from his father’s staff rang out a bare breath later. Einarr met his father’s eyes with a boyish grin, and the older man’s confident smirk never faltered.

    Muttered voices from outside the circle, those few who were not participating, were punctuated by the clink of coins changing hands. Both of them spun once on their heels, mugging for the crowd. Clack! Einarr’s feint was blocked by Stigander’s.

    They exchanged a few more showy feints, their staves cracking against each other with every blow, before the flow of the music suggested a separation. Einarr planted his staff on the floor and pushed off into another cartwheel. Stigander held his at both ends and jumped over the middle of it. The crowd loved it, but Einarr saw the Jarl clench his jaw.

    They spun together now, their staves striking with enough force to sting the palms this time. Stigander pressed close and growled at his partner. “So you do have some spirit in you. Give them a good show, now.”

    “We’ve got her attention.”

    In the moment before they sprang apart, Stigander’s smirk relaxed into a smile. The music led them on from occasional feints and into the “fight” at the center of the dance, and their staves kept time for the piper as much as the drummer did. Before long, the music allowed them to press forward again.

    “It’s not her attention I’m worried about.”

    Einarr glanced at the Jarl for just a moment and got shoved back three steps. From that third step, though, he leaped forward, staff raised overhead to strike. Stigander raised his overhead, braced in two hands.

    “I can’t tell if he’s furious or bored.” Hroaldr was still in the circle, but deliberately not looking at the spectacle in the center.

    “Furious.” Stigander looked deliberately over toward the Jarl. “But we might be in danger of boring the rest.” Stigander ducked and spun around behind Einarr, tagging the back of his legs with his staff. Einarr followed suit, ducking into a low spin and sweeping his staff towards his father’s legs. Stigander jumped.

    Nice choice, Father. Einarr spun faster, rising gradually from his crouch. With each spin, Stigander had to jump a little higher. Eventually, when the stick was nearly to his waist, he backflipped out of the arc of the strike. Clack! Stigander brought his own staff around to meet his son’s.

    Einarr lunged forward, taking his staff in a two-handed grip and driving his shoulder into his father’s rock-hard stomach. The man didn’t even grunt, and so Einarr turned the lunge into a spin on his outer heel, the other leg held out straight. When he turned around, Stigander had once again turned to face him. His face was red as he knocked the end of the staff against the floor, and he seemed out of breath. An icy flood of worry crushed Einarr’s flush of enjoyment, and he knocked his own staff to signal the end of the fight.

    Stigander did not give up his swagger as he danced to the outer circle, but it was less certain of itself. He tossed the staff to the waiting Kjelling and moved to take Einarr’s old place in the circle.

    The place near Runa was open, but there was no reason Stigander should have conceded there. Einarr tossed his staff back to Erik and tried to follow: a look over Stigander’s shoulder warned him off. Later, then. He stood straighter, ignoring for the moment his concern in favor of a “victory” lap around the stage before he trotted off to take his Father’s former place near the Jarl.

    He nearly stopped in his tracks when he saw the Jarl’s face. Hroaldr’s face was redder than Stigander’s, his lips pursed in fury, staring at Einarr. He slid into the proffered opening anyway, giving Runa a thin-lipped smile.

    It may have been the single most uncomfortable place he had stood during a Hall Dance, but thankfully it didn’t go on much longer. Even Sivid didn’t try to compete with the father-son show that had just occurred, and he wasn’t usually one to be cautious of the odds.

    As the music faded and the circle dissolved, Einarr felt a strong hand grip his arm. A strong, male hand. He turned slowly, knowing who it had to be. Einarr was still unprepared for the fury filling the Jarl’s eyes.

    “I’m not blind, boy. Even if I were, Stigander has made things quite plain t’me. D’ye think that maybe, just maybe, there’s a reason Trabbi is courting my daughter instead of the son of my friend?”

    Einarr opened his mouth to interject, but the Jarl continued.

    “You want to marry my daughter. So tell me, boy: d’ye have a hall?”

    Einarr clapped his mouth shut.

    “D’ye have a hearth? A ship? Oh, yes, you have a ship – or you will, crewed by your father’s men, loyal to him first, and no port to call your own. Is that what you would have me bind Runa to? Trabbi is a loyal vassal. Trabbi has holdings of his own, and if his boats are fishing boats, there are worse things. Now, tell me, boy, who should I marry my daughter to?”

    “My lord, how many wives has Trabbi buried?” It was all he could come up with under the stinging truth of the Jarl’s rage.

    “Fewer than Stigander.”

    “And how old are his children?”

    Hroaldr met his eyes in an icy glare, the anger undiminished, as though to say he had already considered such matters. “Do not test me where my daughter is concerned. Understood?”

    “Yes, my lord.”

    1.7 – Feast in the Hall 1.9 – Spring Thaw
    Table of Contents
  • 1.7 – Feast in the Hall

    1.7 – Feast in the Hall

    On their return to the Hall, Einarr and Stigander had turned over their skinned prize to the cooks of Kjell and went directly to the sauna to clean up.

    At the feast that night, every time Einarr attempted to approach Runa, an older man of the Hall deftly slipped between them – holding her chair here, drowning his offer of tafl with a spontaneous verse there, and casting challenging looks at Einarr the entire time. Runa took all of this with a polite smile that did not touch her eyes. Meanwhile, at every turn he felt the fire in his breast being stoked.

    Then the Jarl called for music, and the tables were cleared to allow for dancing. As the drummer and the piper struck up a lively tune and the revelers formed a circle, Runa took her place at her father’s right hand. Without anyone really noticing how he managed it, her new suitor took her other side. Einarr, meanwhile, ended up sandwiched between Erik and the cook he had last seen cleaning their reindeer.

    The circle began it’s bouncing step to the beat of the drum. Then the piper and the lyrist launched into the tune itself – a quick number, such that the Hall’s children and those who had already drunk too much were prone to stumbles. This didn’t continue for long, however: within a few bars of the music, Sivid moved to the center of the circle with a clap to the sole of his boot. He was good, one of the best of the Vidofnings, but the hall dance was a competition in its own right. Rather than leave everything on the dance floor then and there, this was a warm-up. He dropped to a bridge and rose again, his hands never touching the floor, and to the rhythm of the drum performed some simple acrobatics. He kicked for the rafters once, and danced out to rejoin the circle at a favorable location.

    A man of the was next to enter the circle, and if his agility was lacking he made up for it with spirit. Einarr caught his father’s eye and quirked his head before following the Kjelling into the center. Let’s put on a show…

    When the man of the hall danced out, Einarr trotted in at the first acceptable moment. He clicked his heels and slapped his soles once or twice before dropping into a crouch and twirling on the balls of his feet. Before that could bore anyone, Einarr sprang up directly into a backflip and a one-handed cartwheel. He caught sight of the Princess’ face and saw an encouraging smile there. A few scattered cheers rose up from around the circle, and so he made a bouncing circuit inside the wheel before kicking for the rafters himself. Someone a little closer to the Princess let him back into the outer circle, and he was followed by another young man of the Hall. It was poor form, after all, for the guests to try and dominate the Hall dance.

    Einarr paid little attention to the new Kjelling. His focus was on the old man with the Jarl’s favor, who had not looked away since he ceded the stage. The rest of the hall seemed to enjoy the performance, however, and Einarr tamped down on his impatience. The only person he cared about besting tonight was the anonymous suitor – a man Einarr expected chosen more for loyalty than any particular skill.

    Eventually the greybeard had an opening to slide out onto the stage. He moved immediately into crouching kicks, all the while spinning as he moved around the circle. A bridge into a backflip – no hands – kick the rafters, and then he walked on his hands before springing back to his feet. More cheering – someone called out “Trabbi!” He trotted around the circle once more, quirking his head at Einarr as he passed, and returned to the circle.

    Einarr bided his time. The earliest he could return to the floor would be four more dancers, he thought, based on the number on the floor. Much longer than that, though, and it would look like he conceded. He watched, half his brain weighing the other dancers and half determining how best to play on his rival’s performance.

    Finally the Hall Dance came back around to where Einarr could step out, and he opened with a prance into a jumping axe kick that clopped against the floor but rattled no-one’s cup. He skipped only a half-circuit before gathering his strength in his thighs. Einarr launched himself in the spinning kick for the rafters, and no sooner had his first foot touched the floor than he hopped up into a hands-free backflip. He heard his crewmates cheering, and probably some of the Kjellings as well, but all that mattered right then was Runa’s smiling eyes. He grinned then: if she liked that, she would love this.

    He bent his knees and bounced on his toes, kicking out like Trabbi had done for a time, and motioned to Sivid. The man tossed him a cap. He pulled it over his ears and sprang forward, somersaulting into a headstand. The floor here was a little rough, but it would do: he spun.

    The crowd’s delighted laughter turned to excited muttering. Einarr saw another pair of boots step out onto the floor. He knew those boots: they had been a gift from Astrid before the last Ice.

    1.6 – Winter Hunt 1.8 – Dance Fight!
    Table of Contents
  • 1.6 – Winter Hunt

    1.6 – Winter Hunt

    For three weeks, Einarr let the question rest despite the way it rode around on his shoulders like a troublesome pet. He was no coward, he reminded himself every time a chance to speak in private vanished. At the end of the last week of Wintersmonth, an idea occurred to him.

    “Father, I’ve heard the Kjellings speak well of the reindeer here on the island. Shall we go hunting?”

    “A fine idea, my boy. Nothing like a little sport to keep a body warm during the Ice.”

    Three hours later, skis on their feet, axes on their belts and bows on their backs, the two men glided over the surface of the snow through the sparse spruce wood not far north of where the Vidofnir was moored for the season. They pulled a sledge between them, not yet occupied by the prize they sought.

    In truth, Wintersmonth was a terrible time to go hunting. If there were deer to be found today, they would be in the wood, though, taking advantage of the wind break it offered. Einarr knew this; Stigander had taught him everything he knew about hunting, just as he was teaching him the proper way to run a ship.

    Stigander paused a moment to straighten his back and lift his face to the sky. He let out a loud breath, the steam billowing upward like a tiny cloud. “It’s good to get out of the hall for a few hours.”

    “It does get rather stuffy in there. You know what I’m looking forward to, though?”

    “What’s that?”

    “The excuse to do a long sauna plunge after we get back.” Einarr half-chuckled.

    Stigander grinned. “Yep. That’ll be a nice cap to our hunting.”

    Einarr scanned his eyes over the needle-picked snow on the ground in the forest, his mind casting about for a way to begin. “Father, do you intend to remarry?”

    “Perhaps. I hadn’t given the idea much thought yet. Surely that can’t be what’s been bothering you all month, can it?”

    Maybe the question had been too natural. “I overheard Bardr talking to you about …Princess Runa.” He’d nearly forgotten the title. That would have revealed more than he really wanted to.

    “Oh, at the funeral?” He seemed strangely amused.

    “She told me the Jarl is thinking about giving her to you.” It was surprisingly difficult to keep his voice neutral.

    Stigander shook his head, chortling. “She must have misunderstood. I’ve been trying to convince him that you’d be a good match. Bardr thinks so, too.”

    “You have?”

    He nodded now. “You don’t seriously think I didn’t notice, do you? But he’s not terribly enthused by the idea.”

    Einarr snorted. “What, you mean the Jarl isn’t fond of the idea of consigning his daughter to wandering with the heir of Raenshold?”

    Stigander harrumphed. “Not even remotely. Especially not with my bad fortune.”

    At least he accepts that it is bad fortune. In the moment of silence that followed Einarr spotted not only cloven hoofprints in the snow, but also a trace of blood. “Hah! Father, over there.”

    Einarr tossed the sledge rope he carried over a tree limb and poled over to the crimson stain on the snow.

    Their quarry had bounded north from here. Interspersed within the hoofprints, Einarr spotted the tracks of a lone wolf. He turned his head to look over his shoulder: Stigander was only a few paces behind, the second sledge rope hanging from the same branch as its twin. He pointed in the direction the trail was headed. “Two for one! If we’re lucky, there’s a wolf pelt to be had.”

    Stigander grunted and turned off to move parallel to the trail, angling his skis to walk up the slope. Einarr followed, and as he moved he unslung the bow from his back and began the process of limbering it. A cold bow would quickly become a broken bow, after all.

    Not many minutes had passed before Einarr could hear the angry snarling of a wolf from the near distance. He exchanged a glance with his father, also unlimbering his bow, and they glided forward.

    In a small clearing just ahead of them, reindeer and wolf faced each other. Had there been a full pack of wolves, the prey would already be fallen. Now one large, if emaciated, white wolf clashed with a young doe, circling each other in search of an opening. Her foreleg was cut up from an earlier clash with the wolf. It had a gash on its shoulder, likely the result of a well-aimed kick. Einarr drew. A deep breath for focus, and he loosed his arrow toward the wolf.

    Two arrows flew in parallel, and two arrows embedded themselves in the wolf – one in the neck, one in the ribs. It recoiled and whimpered but did not look away from the reindeer. Einarr drew and loosed again. Half a moment later, his father’s second arrow arced towards the deer’s neck.

    Einarr’s shot buried itself deeper in the wolf’s chest, and now the creature turned to face this new, unseen threat. Father and son shared a glance. When Stigander nodded and reached for a third arrow, Einarr unhooked his axe and propelled himself out into the clearing.

    Stigander’s second arrow also found flesh, but could not pierce the muscle in the doe’s neck to bring her down. Two more arrows followed it in quick succession, and then Einarr was too focused on the wolf, visible against the snow primarily by its face and the bloodied fur around its wounds.

    The wolf bared its teeth and snarled at Einarr where he crouched on his skis. You’re not half so vicious as you look. Come and try me. Instead, it backed toward the edge of the clearing. At the same time, the reindeer was tossing its head, looking for an escape route.

    He let the wolf go. The coat was nice, but the meat would leave something to be desired. The deer, on the other hand, now that would be good eating. Another arrow shot out for the creature as it tried to bound away, and Einarr sent his axe after it. Thock-thunk – the two projectiles struck true against the back of the doe’s head. Stigander’s arrow pierced just below the right ear, and the back of the axe-head knocked against the base of her skull. The doe crumpled.

    As Einarr moved to retrieve his axe and finish the job, Stigander finally glided forward into the clearing.”Nice shot.”

    “You, too, Father.” The cloud of steam he exhaled carried with it a good portion of the excitement of the hunt. “Let’s get her field-dressed and head back?”

    “Indeed. And then, another sort of hunt begins.” Stigander looked at his son out of the corner of his eye and laughed as Einarr grinned.

    1.5 – Tafl  1.7 – Feast in the Hall
    Table of Contents
  • 1.5 – Tafl

    1.5 – Tafl

    Winter fell hard and fast after the funeral. Three days later, the least experienced of the Vidofnings went to help bring in the goats. Three days after that, Kjellings and Vidofnings alike were snowed in.

    That, of course, didn’t mean they were without things to do. There was wood to be chopped, and game to be hunted, and if there was one thing the people at Kjell Hall were good at it was making games out of everyday chores. Then, of an evening, once the sauna fire had been allowed to smolder, there were other entertainments to be had inside.

    “Hah!” Erik laughed on the fifth night since the blizzard, shoving aside three empty bowls and various other remnants of their supper. “Anyone who can beat me at arm wrestling tonight wins my share of tomorrow’s mead!”

    Einarr laughed to himself and did not step forward. The only person on the Vidofnir who could beat Erik at arm wrestling was Stigander himself, and he and the Jarl were speaking quietly at the far end of the hall. Some of the younger men of the hall tried their luck, though, and Einarr thought to watch them for a little.

    After the third Kjelling had lost a night’s share of mead, Einarr found his attention wandering. Elsewhere there were people dicing, and he saw a one-on-one tug of war going on near the door. The figure-eight rope stretched between the two deck hands was dark from years of use as they each tried to pull the other one out of balance and break the tension between their feet. Einarr smiled a little: it didn’t appeal tonight – he’d had enough rowing on the ship for the moment – but as the winter wore on it might be worthwhile.

    “Tafl?” A sweetly feminine voice asked from over his shoulder.

    Startled, Einarr snapped his head around. He hadn’t realized anyone was there. “Runa! You play?”

    “Of course I play! You’re the one who taught me, remember?”

    “I . . .” He had forgotten. “I suppose I did, didn’t I. Well, then, let’s see how you’ve improved.”

    They spoke as much as played, of old times and of the past seven years. The blue of her pinafore matched her eyes. Einarr found it hard to keep his mind on the game with the fire of her lips swaying in the breeze of every word, and since he was defending that meant Runa captured his king in a humiliating five rounds.

    “I won!” She laughed gleefully, and her smile seemed to clear some of the smoke from the room.

    Einarr shook his head. “So you did. I don’t know where my mind was. One more game?” He was better than that, and he knew it.

    “Fine. But this time, I’ll defend, just to prove I can beat you either way.”

    “You’re on.”

    He paid more attention to the game this time, so that it took her a full fourteen turns to escape. Einarr’s brow knit in consternation until he looked up to see her smiling warmly at him. “Who have you played to get so good at this?”

    “Father, mostly. Sometimes a visitor will play me, and I always trounce them because they never seem to take me seriously. Even you.”

    “Hey, now that’s not fair. I was taking you seriously.” Maybe not quite in the way she meant, though. She was just a little distracting.

    “Of course you were.” Her smile turned impish for a moment. She picked up one of the pawns and started to finger it, her face falling. “So, Father is wanting me to get married soon.”

    “You are about the age.” So am I, for that matter. But… A strange reluctance crept over Einarr whenever that thought occurred to him. It wasn’t like he had anything much to offer a bride.

    “Close, yes. And with Mother gone, I think he wants to know I’ll be taken care of.”

    “So, what’s the problem?”

    “I think he wants me to marry your father.”

    For the second time since they came to Kjell Hall, Einarr felt time come crashing to a stop. The din of the hall around them receded from his ears as he tried to accept her words. No.

    “I don’t think he’s decided yet.” She was trying to make him feel better. The shock must have shown on his face. “But it’s not what I want, either.”

    “Who was your father speaking to?” He tried to speak normally.

    “It’s just the impression I’ve gotten.”

    Einarr shook his head. Damn it. “After Astrid’s funeral… I heard Bardr floating the idea to my father.” He looked her in the eye. “I’ll talk to him. He’s a reasonable man.”

    “As you like.” Runa’s face was shaded with doubt.

    “Hey, smile. No-one gets married in the winter. We’ve got months to talk them out of it. Come on, one more? Or shall we play something else?”

    “Hmmmm.” Her smile was mischievous now. “Have your mothers taught you verse?”

    Despite himself, he was a little embarrassed. “I’m afraid not. Father always kept me tied up in other things.”

    “Well then I suppose it wouldn’t be much fun to play at lausavisa. Tell me about someplace you’ve seen.” She leaned forward eagerly, her elbows pressed together where they rested on her knees. Einarr swallowed hard as his mind raced, trying to think of a story his princess would appreciate.

    What am I thinking about, ‘my’ princess? Don’t fool yourself. Despite his status as Stigander’s heir, the Jarl had never given Einarr the time of day. There was no way he’d give up his daughter to him, not with the curse in play.

    “Mistress?” A young woman of the hall approached.

    “Yes, Helgi, what is it?”

    “Your father would like a word with you.”

    “Yes, of course. I’ll be right there.” She turned her attention back to Einarr. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to be back.”

    Einarr nodded, for once distracted by something other than the beautiful woman who had trounced him at tafl. Stigander and the Jarl were both watching them intently.

    1.4 – Funeral Rites  1.6 – Winter Hunt
    Table of Contents
  • 1.4 – Funeral Rites

    1.4 – Funeral Rites

    In four days a spruce graveship was made ready for Astrid’s body, lavishly appointed by the Jarl. All that was left was for Stigander to select her grave gifts from the hold of the Vidofnir and they could send her off before the Ice. The soothsayers claimed there would be another few days yet before winter rolled over the island.

    Stigander and Einarr pulled up the deck boards of the Vidofnir and stared at their gains from the raid. Everyone had offered to help, of course, but Stigander was adamant: his only son was the only one who would be allowed on board.

    Gold and bone, glass and pewter and wood stared back at them from below the deck. Stigander sat, dangling his feet over the edge, and Einarr folded his legs under him. “Combs, jewelry, her favorite knife,” Stigander muttered. “Did we get any instruments from the last village? A lute, a lyre?”

    Einarr shook his head. “I don’t recall. A cup – no, not a cup. Knowing her, she’d rather have a horn.” He caught his father eyeing the one at his hip. “And she would never let you hear the end of it if you sent Grandfather Raen’s with her.”

    Stigander’s mouth curled in half of a smile under his beard. “I suppose you’re right.” He sighed, then, not moving to search through their haul for the gifts. “Why do I do this to myself?” he asked the air above them.

    “Why do you do what?”

    “Marry.” He bit off the word. “No. Don’t listen to me. I don’t regret a minute of it, with any of them.”

    “I know, Pabbi.” He almost never called his father that anymore, but it felt right here. “Loving too freely is far from the worst fault a man can have.”

    Stigander choked out a laugh. “That sounds like Grimhildr.”

    “I heard it first from Mamma, but I think they’ve all said it.” Well, the three he could remember, anyway. His birth mother had died when he was still a tot. “I think I’m a lucky son, to see the way you adore your wives.”

    They sat in silence for a minute, continuing to stare at the treasure belowdecks while the necessity of the moment sank in. “Come on. Astrid had a sailor’s taste. I’m sure we can find gifts she’ll love down here.”

    “Show some respect to your stepmother,” Stigander pretended to scold, accepting the attempt to brighten his mood even if only for a moment.

    ***

    The graveship was built upon a wood and earthen pyre mound. At sunset on the appointed night, after her nails had been cut and the body dressed in new clothes, everyone from the Hall gathered with the crew of the Vidofnir to bid Astrid farewell. Runa sang the dirge to ease the passage of the soul into Skaldsgarden. Sixteen was young for the job, but since her mother had passed sometime after Vidofnir last made port here she was the best Singer on the island.

    Jarl Hroaldr and Stigander recited the prayers for the dead, a gloomy chant overlaid on the sad, sweet notes of Runa’s voice. Einarr stood at his father’s shoulder, blessing the darkness and the smoke from the torches for hiding the redness of his own eyes. At the last, as the chanted prayers fell silent to leave only the melody and the crackle of fire, Stigander tossed the first torch on the graveship. Einarr threw a moment later, followed by torches from the rest of the crew. They all stood vigil in the sharp wind of an early winter night until the heat from the flames on their faces became unbearable. In the smoke, Einarr saw his stepmother waving silent farewell to her crew, made visible by Runa’s song magic.

    Finally people began to fade back into the darkness, headed for the warm comfort of Hroaldr’s hall, first the residents of the hall, then one by one the Vidofnings as they tore themselves away. Einarr took his place near the end of the procession back: Father would be the last to leave, both by custom and by preference. One pair of feet went the wrong way, however. Einarr looked up to see Bardr heading back towards where Stigander still stared into the pyre and stopped. He wanted to stop Bardr, but the man still technically outranked him.

    When Grimhildr was slain, eight years ago now, it was Bardr who pointed Father at Astrid. Five years before that, he had found Grimhildr for the Captain, too, when his second wife died in childbirth. Surely Bardr had some other woman in mind to soothe his Captain’s sorrow now, too, and if the pattern followed Father would insist on wedding before bedding. But not at the funeral, man. Have some decency.

    He moved on. Bardr was a good sailor and a fine warrior, but Einarr sometimes wondered what went on in the man’s head. Mid-stride of his third step, a name floated on the wind to Einarr’s ears: Princess Runa. He froze. Beautiful, vibrant Runa, younger even than Einarr – for Stigander? Einarr’s mind rebelled. Surely Father wouldn’t be so foolish as to marry a woman young enough to be his daughter, would he?

    1.3 – In the Hall of the Sea King  1.5 – Tafl
    Table of Contents
  • 1.3 – In the Hall of the Sea King

    1.3 – In the Hall of the Sea King

    Seven years earlier

    The soothsayers claimed snow was coming, even though they should ordinarily have had another month. Even though it was bright and sunny over the Hall. But it was unwise to go against the soothsayers in matters of weather or fate, and Captain Stigander set several of his best lookouts up into trees to watch the horizon.

    “Not you,” Stigander said when Einarr started to climb a tree.

    “What? Why not?” He didn’t want to whine. He’d been a deckhand long enough not to whine, but his voice cracked on the ‘what’ to make it sound like one.

    “Deckhands operate on deck. Go help bring in the goats.”

    “Yes, sir.” His fingers only itched a little with the urge to climb: once they were up there, they probably weren’t coming down for quite a while, and that would be boring. More boring than wrestling goats, certainly, and there were always a few. He dashed off across the meadow to join the goat-herds, already headed further into the interior of the island.

    “Hey-yo,” he called as he caught up. Many of the other boys responded in kind. Most of them did not yet even have the haze of downy stubble that was beginning to grace Einarr’s chin.

    The goats had already wandered out from the rockiest area of the island when they found them, perhaps sensing the impending storm as the soothsayers did. The goat-herd hailed the group from a distance of fifty paces. “What news?”

    “The Ice descends,” answered one of the few boys there older than Einarr, a hint of melodrama in his voice.

    “Ugh,” groaned the goat-herd. “Seriously?”

    “That’s what we’re told.”

    They moved around behind the herd of goats and began marching forward in a line, back toward the Hall. The goats, of course, mostly ignored them, slipping between legs or kicking back when they got tired of being kneed by walking teenagers. Then someone had the idea to make a game of it; whoever carried or led the most goats back to the winter pen, won. Anyone who hurt a goat by accident got a penalty to their count. It was understood that anyone who hurt a goat on purpose would be thrashed by everyone else.

    Einarr had wrestled three does and a young buck into the pen when he noticed a small slip of a girl out among them, her pale blond hair mussed half out of its braid, laughing as she clung to the neck of a particularly headstrong doe that was trying to break for the rocks.

    What is she even doing out here? He thought, breaking off from the doe he had been trying to corner. Thankfully the other goat was slowed by the weight of a child hanging on its neck and Einarr was able to get in front of it. The doe stopped just shy of ramming into Einarr and planted her feet, her nostrils flaring. The doe plainly didn’t think she could dodge him with this weight she couldn’t get rid of.

    Before the goat could buck and try to throw off its cargo, Einarr bent over and took hold of its slender legs. “You can let go now.”

    Once the girl released the goat, he scooped it up over his shoulders. The doe, of course, tried to fight, but with its legs restrained there was a limit to what it could do. “I’ll carry this one back for you.”

    “Thanks!” The girl was still a little breathless. “Don’t you try to steal my count, though!”

    “Nope, this one’s all yours.” A laugh tried to well up from his belly, but he repressed it. Somehow, he didn’t think she would take that kindly.

    “Okay then. I’m Runa.”

    “Nice to meet you, Runa. I’m Einarr. Is it fun, having the princess’ name?” They both started walking back toward the pen. Einarr ambled, really, since she wouldn’t have been able to keep up with his longer legs.

    “Being the princess is great – except when they try to keep me from playing with the boys.”

    Surprised, Einarr nearly let go of the goat that still struggled on his shoulders. That would have ended badly for all three of them. What’s the Princess doing out… oh. Well, she wants to play, let’s see if she can win.

    “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Princess. Come on, we’ll be a team. We’re sure to win, that way.” He was pretty sure he was near the lead before, and it would have been miraculous if she’d managed to get even one goat before this one.

    Now

    Is that . . . Runa? He shook his head and finished his descent to the bench. Even if it was the princess, she probably didn’t remember him. She had been perhaps ten the last time he’d seen her, and he fourteen. She was a woman, now, and Einarr could think of any number of men more likely to be chosen as her husband. “Heir of Raenshold” meant very little these days. He took a bowl of venison stew and began talking with the men to either side of him, trying not to stare.

    Erik, on his left, was talking with one of the Kjellings about the attack on their ship. Einarr couldn’t count the number of times they’d all talked it over when they were off rowing duty, but it still didn’t make any sense. Where had the storm come from? No-one knew. How had the Grendel operated freely in that weather? Some thought it was a ghost ship, filled with the spirits of drowned sailors. Einarr doubted it.

    So did the Kjelling Erik was talking to. “If that had been a ghost ship, they wouldn’t have settled for just Astrid.”

    “That’s the part that worries me,” Einarr jumped in, the black demon’s head fresh in his mind. Runa was still a distraction from the corner of his eye, but this had been gnawing on him since the attack. “It wasn’t like they settled for Mother at all. They barely even bothered with the rest of us – just enough to keep us away from their target.”

    “You think she was targeted?” Erik took a swig of his mead.

    “Doesn’t it look that way to you?”

    “How could they even have been sure she was there,though?” The man on the other side of Erik leaned forward as he asked the question and looked over at Einarr.

    Einarr shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s just what it looks like to me.” That wasn’t quite true: he did have an idea, but it wasn’t one he was certain he could credit. Runa was nodding earnestly at something one of the other Kjellings was saying to her; Einarr blinked, and made himself look back at Erik and the other man. As his eyes flicked across the room, it seemed like Bardr was studying her, as well. Oh, no. Not her, man. “While we’re asking questions, though, why would they risk attacking another ship in a storm?”

    “Especially without a battle-chanter of their own,” Erik grumbled.

    “They didn’t… you’re right, they didn’t. Or if they did, she wasn’t singing, which amounts to the same thing.”

    “You’re sure they weren’t agents of one of the Empires?”

    “I… suppose it’s possible?” Einarr hadn’t considered that. From the looks of it, neither had Erik. Finally, though, he shrugged. “Well. Father will want the blood price in blood, I expect, no matter who they are.” He took another mouthful of stew and glanced back toward the princess. When did she grow up?

    1.2 – Aftermath 1.4 – Funeral Rites
    Table of Contents
  • 1.2 – Aftermath

    1.2 – Aftermath

    The storm sluiced the blood from the deck as the Vidofnir rowed, searching for the edge of it, hoping nothing further happened. Astrid’s body was tied to the deck where she fell. It would be too much to bear for any of them, let alone Father, if she were to wash overboard.

    Even with the sail furled the mast creaked ominously until they had cleared the storm. Once they dropped the sea anchor, most of the crew swarmed over the ship, checking for damage. Einarr helped his father tend his stepmother’s body under the Captain’s awning. Somehow, she was the only casualty from their ship, and the Grendel had paid in blood for the honor. “This doesn’t make sense,” he blurted, arranging Astrid’s arms so that her hands lay folded on her stomach.

    “It never does, son.” Stigander’s voice was raw, his eyes bloodshot. Astrid may have been his fourth wife, but her loss was just as bitter as Grimhildr’s had been six years ago. He stepped up toward the bedroll-turned-bier, a pot of ointment in his hands.

    “That’s… that’s not what I meant. I’m sorry, Father.” It was unreasonable to expect him to be paying attention to the oddness of the Grendel’s attack – even if he was the Captain – under the circumstances.

    “You don’t have to stay. I can take care of this.”

    “Yes, Father.” Heaving a sigh, Einarr straightened and stepped softly out from under the canvas. He had liked Astrid, dammit, but Father required him to put on a public face while Stigander could not.

    His steps rang out when he moved amidships, however. The crew would mourn later; the ship came first. He spotted Bardr standing near the mast. “How bad is it?”

    “Bad enough. I think this is the worst of it.” He patted the column of wood. “We’ll have to replace it this winter. We can reinforce, but with the time we’ll lose to that we might not make Silringshold before the ice sets in.”

    Einarr blew air through his thick red moustache, shoving aside a momentary pang of regret for Raenshold – the home he had never seen. “What are our other options? Is there another friendly hold nearby?”

    “Have to check the charts to be sure.”

    He knit his brow. His father had the charts, so far as Einarr was aware, and now was not the time to disturb him.

    Three men pulled Erik up from over the side of the boat, shaking his soaked head. Two more men were waiting with wool blankets.

    “What happened,” Einarr and Bardr asked at the same moment.

    “Damage below the water line. Don’t think there’s enough wood to patch it and the mast. Wherever we’re going, we’ll have to row.”

    The men were not going to like that. Hel, Einarr didn’t like that with no land in sight.

    A slow, heavy step sounded from behind them and Stigander’s blond head glowed nearly white in the sun. “We’ll make for Kjell Hall.”

    ***

    Everyone, even the Captain, took their turn at the oars, and with every silent dip of the paddles beneath the water’s surface they remembered Astrid and her song magic. Occasionally someone would try to get a rowing chant going, but none of them had trained in the song magic and it was a weak, tremulous thing. Those who were not rowing were subdued, warring within themselves between gratitude that they hadn’t lost more and grief for the giant presence that had vanished.

    After a week of rowing the Vidofnir slipped into the bay and up the river that led to Kjell Hall, its shallow keel skimming across the water’s surface. It was good that the raid had been a success, for Kjell Hall was the hold of Jarl Hroaldr, and even an old friend did not winter at the King’s Hall without gifts.

    The bay was long and narrow, and the mouth of the river broad, such that one could only tell by brackishness where one ended and the other began. The shallow white sand beach proceeded only a few feet from the high tide mark before being met by the open spruce wood that covered most of the island.

    Stigander ordered the Vidofnir beached just past the salt-water line and the crew was allowed to debark. A gentle wind blew up over the water towards the interior of the island, cutting through Einarr’s heavy wool cloak. Einarr nearly envied Sivid and the others who were ordered to make fast the ship: they were still moving.

    It was only a moment, however, and then they were moving again, walking openly up the forest path from the beach toward Kjell Hall on the highest point of the island. Patches of snow glowed white where the morning sun had not yet reached.

    A hunting horn sounded as they stepped out of the wood and into the wide swath of now-dormant farmland surrounding the Hall. Ahead of them stood the great Hall of Jarl Hroaldr, King of the Cold Sea and childhood friend of Captain Stigander, Thane of Raenshold. The gates were opening to reveal the warm light of fire and the rolling laughter of those already present under the great upturned boat of a roof. The Vidofnings tramped through the palisade surrounding the hall after their Captain, who stopped two paces outside the door.

    “Hail to ye!” A voice bellowed from within. “Stigander and his Vidofnings are well-come to Kjell.”

    “Hail, my Jarl, and many thanks.” Only now, with the proper invitations, did Stigander allow himself and his men to enter the hall. “I’m afraid we’ll have to impose on you for a time. The Vidofnir needs repair, and the winter ice is too near at hand.”

    The Jarl laughed. “There will always be a place for old friends at my Hall. For tonight, be merry, and we will see about business on the morrow.”

    Einarr stepped to the side when he entered. Jarl Hroaldr was visibly scanning the faces of the crew.

    “Stigander, where is your lovely wife?”

    His father’s face contorted. “Awaiting entry to Skaldsgarden.”

    The mood of the hall was quenched, and Hroaldr’s face fell. “I’m so sorry. Will you allow me to see to the burial arrangements?”

    Stigander gave a bitter half-smile. “I’m afraid she cannot be sent off from Raenshold now. That would be most gracious.”

    Hroaldr nodded, waving his hand in invitation for Stigander to come and sit at the head of the hall with him. Einarr found an open seat elsewhere, but as he was lowering himself a flash of gold caught his attention. He looked up. Time seemed to stop. There, reclining on a cushion near the Jarl, the fairest woman Einarr had ever seen laughed with one of the serving wenches. Her hair was the color of spun flax, her lips the vibrant pink of fireweed, her skin as pale and fair as the rein rose. Is that . . . Runa?

    1.1 – A Sudden Squall  1.3 – In the Hall of the Sea King
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